The Blade Itself

he saw the confession, he knew everything! I never trusted that smarmy shit. Kalyne was loyal, then.

Glokta shrugged. “We all make mistakes.”

The Magister gave a withering sneer. “Mistakes? That’s all you’ve made, dolt! The world is nothing like you think it is! You don’t even know what side you’re on! You don’t even know what the sides are!”

“I am on the side of the King, and you are not. That is all I need to know.” Frost had made it to the cabinet and was pressed against it, pink eyes staring intently, trying to see round the corner without being seen. Just a little longer, just a little further…

“You know nothing, cripple! Some small business with tax, some petty bribery, that’s all we were guilty of!”

“And the trifling matter of nine murders.”

“We had no choice!” screamed Kault. “We never had any choices! We had to pay the bankers! They loaned us the money, and we had to pay! We’ve been paying them for years! Valint and Balk, the bloodsuckers! We gave them everything, but they always wanted more!”

Valint and Balk? Bankers? Glokta threw an eye over the ridiculous opulence. “You seem to be keeping your head above water.”

“Seem! Seem! All dust! All lies! The bankers own it all! They own us all! We owe them thousands! Millions!” Kault giggled to himself. “But I don’t suppose they’ll ever get it now, will they?”

“No. I don’t suppose they will.”

Kault leaned across the desk, the rope hanging down and brushing the leather top. “You want criminals, Glokta? You want traitors? Enemies of King and state? Look in the Closed Council. Look in the House of Questions. Look in the University. Look in the banks, Glokta!” He saw Frost, edging round the cabinet no more than four strides away. His eyes went wide and he started up from his chair.

“Get him!” screamed Glokta. Frost sprang forward, lunged across the desk, caught hold of the flicking hem of Kault’s robe of office as the Magister span round and hurled himself at the window. We have him!

There was a sickening rip as the robe tore in Frost’s white fist. Kault seemed frozen in space for a moment as all that expensive glass shattered around him, shards and splinters glittering through the air, then he was gone. The rope snapped taut.

“Thhhhh!” hissed Frost, glaring at the broken window.

“He jumped!” gasped Jalenhorm, his mouth hanging open.

“Clearly.” Glokta limped over to the desk and took the ripped strip of cloth from Frost’s hands. Close up it scarcely seemed magnificent at all: brightly coloured but badly woven.

“Who would have thought?” muttered Glokta to himself. “Poor quality.” He limped to the window and peered through the shattered hole. The head of the honourable Guild of Mercers was swinging slowly back and forth, twenty feet below, his torn, gold-embroidered gown flapping around him in the breeze. Cheap clothes and expensive windows. If the cloth had been stronger we would have got him. If the window had more lead, we would have got him. Lives hinge on such chances. Beneath him in the street a horrified crowd was already gathering: pointing, babbling, staring up at the hanging body. A woman screamed. Fear, or excitement? They sound the same.

“Lieutenant, would you be so good as to go down and disperse that crowd? Then we can cut our friend loose and take him back with us.” Jalenhorm looked at him blankly. “Dead or alive, the King’s warrant must be served.”

“Yes, of course.” The burly officer wiped sweat from his forehead and made, somewhat unsteadily, for the door.

Glokta turned back to the window and peered down at the slowly swinging corpse. Magister Kault’s last words echoed in his mind.

Look in the Closed Council. Look in the House of Questions. Look in the University. Look in the banks, Glokta!

Three Signs

West crashed onto his arse, one of his steels skittering out of his hands and across the cobbles. “That’s a touch!” shouted Marshal Varuz, “A definite touch! Well fought, Jezal, well fought!”

West was starting to tire of losing. He was stronger than Jezal, and taller, with a better reach, but the cocky little bastard was quick. Damn quick, and getting quicker. He knew all of West’s tricks now, more or less, and if he kept improving at this rate he’d soon be beating him every time. Jezal knew it too. He had a smile of infuriating smugness on his face as he offered his hand to West and helped him up from the ground.

“We’re getting somewhere now!” Varuz slapped his stick against his leg in delight. “We may even have ourselves a champion, eh, Major?”

“Very likely, sir,” said West, rubbing at his elbow, bruised and throbbing from his fall. He looked sidelong at Jezal, basking in the warmth of the Marshal’s praise.

“But we must not grow complacent!”

“No, sir!” said Jezal emphatically.

“No indeed,” said Varuz, “Major West is a capable fencer, of course, and you are privileged to have him as a partner but, well,” and he grinned at West, “fencing is a young man’s game, eh, Major?”

“Of course it is, sir,” muttered West. “A young man’s game.”

“Bremer dan Gorst, I expect, will be a different sort of opponent, as will the others at this year’s Contest. Less of the veteran’s cunning, perhaps, but more of the vigour of youth, eh West?” West, at thirty, was still feeling somewhat vigorous, but there was no purpose in arguing. He knew he’d never been the most gifted swordsman in the world. “We have made great progress this past month, great progress. You have a chance, if you can maintain your focus. A definite chance! Well done! I will see you both tomorrow.” And the old Marshal strutted from the sunny courtyard.

West walked over to his fumbled steel, lying on the cobbles by the wall. His side was still aching from the fall, and he had to bend awkwardly to get it. “I have to be going, myself,” he grunted as he straightened up, trying to hide his discomfort as best he could.

“Important business?”

“Marshal Burr has asked to see me.”

“Is it to be war then?”

“Perhaps. I don’t know.” West looked Jezal up and down. He was avoiding West’s eye for some reason. “And you? What have you got in mind for today?”

Jezal fiddled with his steels. “Er, nothing planned… not really.” He glanced up furtively. For such a good card player, the man was a useless liar.

West felt a niggling of worry. “Ardee wouldn’t be involved in your lack of plans, would she?”

“Erm…”

The niggling became a cold throbbing. “Well?”

“Maybe,” snapped Jezal, “well… yes.”

West stepped right up to the younger man. “Jezal,” he heard himself saying, slowly through gritted teeth, “I hope you’re not planning to fuck my sister.”

“Now look here—”

The throbbing boiled over. West’s hands gripped hold of Jezal by his shoulders. “No, you look!” he snarled. “I’ll not have her trifled with, you understand? She’s been hurt before, and I’ll not see her hurt any more! Not by you, not by anyone! I won’t stand for it! She’s not one of your games, you hear me?”

“Alright,” said Jezal, face suddenly pale. “Alright! I’ve no designs on her! We’re just friends is all. I like her! She doesn’t know anyone here and… you can trust me… there’s no harm in it! Ah! Get off me!”

West realised he was squeezing Jezal’s arms with all his strength. How had that happened? He’d only meant